Page 43 of Night Songs

I had loved this idea of Clayton’s, that I could be anyone I wanted no matter my upbringing, and whenever he was around, I usually made sure to have my hair done, my makeup tidy, my outfit spotless. Even when he wasn’t there, I could hear him scolding me for looking like a dirty hillbilly with no sense.

But today it made me want to curl into a ball.

Upstairs, I took a scalding shower and inhaled the steam. That uneasy feeling strengthened, thrashing around like a wild cat in my lungs. I knew what it was. It was that feeling I’d had back home and in the shed, like I was trapped and couldn’t escape, or maybe there was something trapped insidemethat needed to get out.

In my closet, Clayton had laid out a powder-blue skirt suit, sensible pumps, and pearl earrings for me to wear to the studio that morning. I’d have liked to try a psychedelic minidress or a pair of jeans, but he was real particular about my look. The label didn’t want anyone thinking we were engaging in free love. We were still good Christians singing about good values, never mind that Clayton didn’t give a damn about those values. It was all about giving the people what they wanted.

Hess rolled pantyhose up each of my legs, caressing my calves as shedid. I tried to pull her closer to me, but she said we couldn’t. I’d get wrinkled and then we’d be late, and we knew how Clayton would react. It would ruin the whole day.

Outside, we got into the backseat of one of Clayton’s Cadillacs with my hired driver sitting up front. I still had no idea how to drive; Clayton said when you were a star, you paid people for things like that. So I had Beau. Clayton gave him an itinerary every morning, and he took me and Hess wherever I was supposed to go.

A few hours later, I was in the booth singing a new song into the microphone. Clayton had co-written it with one of his regular songwriters, Dick Rhine. Another version of the same song they’d been reinventing over and over for each album, about my man doing me wrong and me hurting over it. This one was called “The Last Time.”

You said you’d change

You said you’d stop

But now you gone and strayed

I know I’ve said it

But I really mean it

This is the last time

I injected my voice with a bluesy sadness like I had with all the others, and as the words drawled from my throat, I realized I felt nothing inside. It was a fake sadness, like a candy flavor. There was nothing aching in my chest like when I sang one of my own songs.

I’d never been in love with a man, much less so in love that I’d put up with that kind of shit. I didn’t know that kind of desperation. With all the sadness I’d stored up over the years, it seemed strange that I’d have to fake it.

I got through the recording, but later I asked Clayton if I could show him a new song I’d written. Whenever I wasn’t working, I was writing songs. Music still drifted down to me at all hours of the day. I knew theyweren’t all winners, but I could tell when one hit a chord. There was something addictive about the sound; I wanted to taste it in my mouth and swallow it down again and again.

I had this new one I’d worked on with Tima, one of my night songs, that was like steak against the teeth: thick, juicy, and silky in the middle.

I played the song for Clayton on my guitar and sang some rough lyrics about the hunger we all feel for a person who’s left us, that aches in the bones. Hunger is the pain of something that’s no longer there. The words worked perfectly with the rich melody, and it was a more complex sound than what they usually gave me. The heartbreak went deeper.

When I was done, I told him Tima and I wanted to do it as a duet. He’d seen Tima perform, and he knew how talented she was. We were lucky she was willing to record with me.

“You really got something there.” He picked up a guitar and played the melody back. I started to play the rest of it with him, but he put his hand up. “No, not that. Just this.” He played only a few bars of the melody, the real tender part at the center of it. “Dick just sent me some lyrics that might work. He closed his eyes and started to sing along with the melody:

God, send me a good woman

So I can be a good man

God, send me a good woman

So I can live your plan

We’d done this dance before. He’d take a piece of my song, the real tender kitten heart that would make it a hit, and then he’d change everything around it, including the words. They became these creatures I didn’t recognize, with my little kitten hearts beating in their chests.

I could just see it. I’d open the album cover and find “written by Clayton Redd and Dick Rhine” underneath the song. The first time it happened, I asked Clayton about it, and he told me that was just the way they did it, because of contracts.

Not this time, buddy. I could feel the fire stoking in me. He was gonna harvest that little kitten heart over my cold, dead body.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not what the song is about. I like the one Tima and I wrote, and I want to sing it with her.”